


Flagmaker, The

by Emilys_List



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Post Bartlett Administration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-19
Updated: 2004-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-15 19:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14796636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilys_List/pseuds/Emilys_List
Summary: "The wise woman does what she knows/If it's fighting she fights/If it's sewing she sews."





	Flagmaker, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**The Flagmaker**

**by:** emily’s list

**Character(s):** Andie, Toby, Huck, Molly  
**Pairing(s):** Toby/Andie  
**Category(s):** Post-Administration  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** i do not own any type of ziegler or lyman. similarly, i do not own oprah winfrey or harry potter. just so you know.   
**Summary:** "The wise woman does what she knows/If it's fighting she fights/If it's sewing she sews."  
**Author's Note:** the title of this fic and the summary are directly stolen from the amazing "songs for a new world" by jason robert brown. 

*********************************  
One more star, one more stripe   
To escape your lonely bed   
One more star, one more stripe   
Join the blue, the white and red   
One more star, one more stripe   
As you pray your child's not dead   
-"The Flagmaker," Songs for a New World/fontfamily>  
/fontfamily>*********************************  
/fontfamily>  
/fontfamily>You backed the war -- a move your constituents applauded.

You spoke in a town hall setting, your son and daughter sitting in the front row. They gazed up at you with admiration, and you smiled down at them. 

"I believe we need to send troops because we are obligated to do so. This is our world we live in, filled with our families and loved ones. But there are others with families, and we must protect each other. We cannot ignore the pain of people living an ocean away."

In truth, war makes you sick. But you’re in a reelection year, and that 85% of the vote you once received has begun to slip.

Years of being the unmarried, single mother of twins. You thought the talk would die down, and it never did.

You try to convince yourself you don’t care, but you’ve always wanted to please. So you please your constituents, telling them exactly what they want to hear.

Your secret is that you back the war because there’s no possibility of a draft. 

Your nineteen-year-old son smiling up at you.

There’s no way in hell you’d back any war that would necessitate a draft.

Fighting today is about technology and sophisticated weaponry, and your son can be spared all of it. 

You can’t believe how beautiful they are. Dark, curly haired children -- essentially mirror images of each other. She’s so happy at Georgetown, she could probably burst. He’s thrilled with Columbia, but when he came home after the Spring semester, he seemed different.

You shake it off as nothing, and you enjoy this summer. The house seems alive again.

When it was just the two of you, you enjoyed the quiet while yearning for stomping around and loud music.

At dinner one night, your son announces that he enlisted. He feels it was his civic duty, and he tells you that he is a patriot. He knows how you both feel about this war, but he believes it to be the only way to serve his country.

He tells you, as you sit there with your teeth clenched, that he learned all about serving one’s country from his parents.

You look across the table to your ex-husband, and his face is as hard as yours must be. He says, No.

That’s it. Just no.

Your son stands up and leaves the table.

Your daughter follows after him.

And you are left at the table with the notion that you called this war an obligation.

You tried to protect them. You went crazy trying to baby proof the house; every outlet plugged with plastic, every hard edge encased in foam. You went on a rampage when some kid uttered an anti-Semitic word at your children on the playground. You wanted to protect your them from every pain and watched as you failed half the time.

You watched them grow, and become capable and intelligent adults. You cried -- sobbed -- when you took them to college; first him, then her.

The two of you drove home quietly from Georgetown, and he touched your knee every once in awhile. 

Your son enlisted to fight in a war that would have no true winner.

"Because of you, Mom. You and Dad always taught me to respect what this country needs. And I can be apart of it."

So now you can’t sleep, as your son fights the designated enemy. 

You’ve become an insomniac, and your doctor suggests: pills, therapy, anything.

You refuse, because you bear this burden that no one else can see. 

He’s nineteen. He’s strong, mentally and physically. He doesn’t understand his own mortality yet, so you stay awake.

Sometimes you pray. Sometimes you work, pouring over defense reports. 

You have now changed your position on the war, and you dare anyone to challenge your new stance.

Sometimes he comes downstairs to sit with you. He makes you tea, or warms up milk, or tells you to go back to bed.

He’s not sleeping much either, but you don’t really talk about that. 

You share a bed with this man; you love this man. But there are some things that cannot be said. 

This burden is yours, but he’s an accomplice. For not stopping your son. 

You both failed at stopping your son.

Usually, he goes back upstairs alone, and you sit for awhile longer before going to the office at 5 AM.

One morning you get a call from the D.C. police; your daughter’s in jail, and she was arrested at an anti-war demonstration.

Oprah Winfrey’s producer calls later in the day, wanting to have you on the show to discuss what it’s like to be the mother of a soldier and an anti-war activist.

You break down and cry a little bit later, for both your babies. 

You realize you can’t stop this war. This President, so fond of aggressive politics, cannot understand the plight of a mother.

Two of your constituents are killed in battle within a week of each other. You attend their funerals and speak of their bravery. You shake the whole time, but you mask it well with a somber smile.

You hug their mothers, fathers. You say, "I’m so sorry for your loss."

But a part of you, a small part, celebrates that it’s not your son who came home in a body bag.

You don’t know when this conflict will end. It’s only been a few months, but time seems to stretch on, slipping away from your comprehension.

You become overly attentive to your daughter as she prepares for her second year of college. You regret the fact that you have only one child to drive to school this year. 

You meet with her once a week for lunch, and she fills you with stories about sit-ins and walkouts and teach-ins. You’re proud; of course you’re proud.

But when reporters ask you how your daughter can protest against her own brother, it starts to wear on you. 

It’s not that you agree with what the media thinks; you know they are often wrong in their spin of a situation, but you cannot help but feel angry at times. With your daughter.

You think of how he needs her support, and her desire to make a statement flies in the face of the risk he’s taking.

They were always so matched.

And now...

You don’t sleep to compensate for the unrest in your head. If you sleep, you may dream.

His last e-mail was censored. The only message left was that he was fine, and he missed his dog, and you and his sister and his father -- in that order.

You always tried to fall asleep. You would go to bed, and kiss him goodnight. He would start to snore, and that’s all it took to send you downstairs.

You always pass his room on your way to the staircase. And every night you look in, and expect to see something different.

You flip on CNN or read briefing memos. You read Newsweek and Time. You read all seven Harry Potter novels -- twice.

One morning, you realize you slept for six hours; you realize, finally, that wishing won’t make him come home safe.

There are no strings to pull.

There are no deals that can be made.

You look at the flag in your office. You burned a flag once, in protest of American nuclear weapons. You look at the symbol. You think about where your heart resides, where your mind resides. You think about children and Fourth of July barbecues with the Lymans. 

You remember how proud you once felt to serve your country. 

And you think about your baby, and all the minutes that pass until he comes home.

*the end*/fontfamily>


End file.
